


Lost Years

by Chericola



Category: Charlie Bone Series | Children of the Red King - Jenny Nimmo
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-20
Updated: 2018-05-18
Packaged: 2018-09-18 18:29:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9397631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chericola/pseuds/Chericola
Summary: One-shots about Lyell's lost years.





	1. The Woman

The students of Bloor's Academy were returning from another weekend free from the Bloors, refreshed and prepared for the week ahead. He watched from the tower window, waiting for the buses filled with children to arrive in the medieval square outside the Academy gates. The boy who continued to take piano lessons from him would be there, among the crowds. An odd boy, very sensitive but also good-hearted. He was endowed, wasn't he?

Something caught his eye, and his gaze was drawn to the surprising sight of a woman and a brown-haired boy walking across the still-empty square. The boy was wearing the blue cape that all music students wore. He was most likely a newcomer- a returning student would have come to the Academy by one of the three buses. The woman, who was holding the boy's hand, had to be the boy's mother. She was beautiful, he noted dimly, even though she was dressed rather shabbily. She also looked very ill at ease, her eyes flitting anxiously around her as if she wished herself far away.

Something about her was… familiar. But how could that be? He'd never seen her before in his life. Or had he? Frowning, he scrutinised her, trying to place her. Surely he would remember something about her if they'd met before. Especially her hair, which was a lovely golden-brown colour. But there was nothing at all-only a strange feeling in his heart. Who was she?

Suddenly, the woman looked straight up at his window. Her face was completely drained of blood; her eyes were widened with alarm. His heart leapt in his chest. He knew her-he felt sure of it. The only question was how.

Just as quickly, she turned away, kissed the boy on the cheek and fled the square as if all the fiends of hell were after her. For some reason, his heart ached at it.

Later, when he lay down to bed, he dreamed for the first time in years. He dreamed of her, the woman with the golden-brown hair and startled eyes, eyes that seemed to see right through him. They sat together at a grand piano in a cosy-looking room, holding hands. She was smiling at him, speaking words to him that he couldn't hear. What were those words? He leaned in closer, but still heard only silence. Gentle fingers caressed his cheek; expressive blue eyes looked into his own with tenderness and love. He said something, he didn't know what, and she laughed.

It was then that he woke up. Staring up at the cracked ceiling of his room—his prison—he felt the sting of loss. Why, he couldn't say. He only knew that his heart ached unbearably when he recalled that woman in the dream, whoever she was, the words he couldn't hear and the tenderness in her eyes. Who was she to him, that he would feel this way?

He couldn't for the life of him figure it out. Soon enough he slipped back into sleep, and by morning all he could remember of that dream was that it had been about a woman.


	2. The Boy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since 'Mr Pilgrim' wasn't his real name, I always thought that Lyell wouldn't have thought of himself as 'Mr Pilgrim' while hypnotised. So I've chosen to refer to him as 'he', at least in this chapter. I'm not sure if this makes it too confusing to tell Charlie and Lyell apart though during the music tower scene, so please feel free to comment and tell me what you think.

Over the next week, he felt something change within him. He tried to hide it, for if the hypnotist began to suspect, he'd try and remedy it as he had countless times before with those pitch-black eyes of his. He couldn't let that happen, not now that he'd made so much progress in breaking free.

As discreetly as he could, he took to watching the boy. There was something familiar about him—whenever he looked at the boy he had the strangest feeling that he knew him from somewhere. But where? And how? He had no recollection of ever having seen him before. And yet, there was something about the boy that gave him pause. At assembly and mealtimes (for he never saw him at any other time) he watched the boy and tried to place him, but failed dismally.

Despite this, he refused to give up. It was almost as if a part of him was compelled to it. There was no reason at all that he should pay any attention to a boy he didn't even know, even if the mere sight of that boy stirred something deep within him. Still, he didn't stop. He had to know who that boy was and why he seemed so familiar even though he had no memory of ever seeing him before.

On Saturday (or at the very least, he thought it was Saturday), he finally met the boy face-to-face.

It was when he was practicing on the grand piano. The usual cathedral chimes had begun to sound, and he stopped playing to listen. As always, something stirred inside of him at hearing those bells, and he felt his mind sharpen slightly. He stood up without thinking, and that was when he noticed the boy. He was standing just inside the room, in front of the closed door, turned away as if he meant to leave. But, seeing the teacher looking at him, he turned back.

The boy said something, and he strained to make out the words. "What?"

"It made me want to listen, sir," the boy repeated, slightly louder this time.

"Oh."

"I'm sorry to intrude," the boy murmured. "I'd better go now."

That was a sensible idea. The boy was plainly not supposed to be there, and if the hypnotist caught him there would be hell to pay. However, something inside of him was resistant. Just as the boy was about to edge out of the room, he made himself step toward him, needing to know the answer to the question that had been niggling at him for days already.

"Wait. Who are you?"

The boy blinked at him, as if he was surprised that he had to ask. "I'm Charlie Bone, sir."

"Charlie?" For some reason, the name resonated within him. There was something important about that name, he was sure of it. But what?

"Yes." The boy—Charlie—looked more confused than ever, and uncomfortable to boot.

He decided to spare him any more awkwardness. "I see. You'd better run along."

"Yes, sir." The relief was clear in the boy's voice, as well as his face. That wasn't surprising—most other children (and even adults) felt the same way after a conversation with him. And just like that, the boy was gone, clattering down the steps to the ground floor as fast as he could manage. The piano teacher didn't blame him one bit for it.

That night, he dreamt again, this time of himself sitting alone at a piano in a cosy room. He was playing something, though he couldn't hear what it was. Suddenly he stopped, and looked down to one side to see a toddler gazed back up at him with innocent brown eyes. He felt himself smile and speak, and again only heard silence. And then, a woman was standing beside him, her golden-brown hair hanging loose down her shoulders, her face like a blank tapestry. His heart skipped a beat. There was something about her… Hadn't he seen her before? His mouth opened, but the woman shook her head, halting whatever thought he'd been about to voice. Slowly, her hand reached toward him…

He found himself blinking into darkness, staring up at the ceiling in his bedroom. Somewhere outside, he could hear the cathedral bells tolling midnight, while a part of him that was usually hidden rose like the tide, aching to be set free. However much he tried, he could never break the barrier that blocked it, not fully. He could only listen to the chimes and try, though it always ended in failure.

After the chimes had died away, his thoughts turned again to the dream, but, tired as he was, sleep claimed him before his mind could begin to work. Hours later, he woke up to the dawn sky and the bells tolling, and he still remembered that dream. And finally he began to wonder.


	3. The Ruin Game

Wind and drums echoed through the Academy, and the sounds of whispers that shouldn't have been so loud. He could hear them so clearly, and what they said sent shivers down his spine.

A boy was lost in the ruin. Not just a boy, but the boy. The boy he'd first seen walking toward the Academy, who he'd met in the tower room and watched at assembly and in the dining hall. He was in trouble. He'd gone into the ruin during the ruin game and hadn't come out again.

Fear gripped his heart. Children had gone missing before during the ruin game, but he hadn't expected that to happen to the boy of all people. Not during his first game. He'd hoped…hoped for what? And why was he even afraid? He shouldn't care, not like this, not about a boy he'd only met once before.

He'd been thinking again, about the boy, the strange thoughts that he felt stirring at the back of his mind whenever he saw him and what they meant. He couldn't understand it. There was something missing, he suspected, something vital, but he had no idea what. The only thing he was certain of was that the boy held the key to something.

And now the boy was in danger. He could only sit and wait and hope until it was over. The storm boy and the African were helping him; surely he would be all right.

He sat at the piano, unable to sleep as the drums and wind sang through the walls, and prayed with all of his might that the boy would be safe. In due course the wind died down and the drums faded away, and somehow he knew that the boy had been saved. With that knowledge stuck in his mind, he lay his head on the piano keys and drifted into a restless sleep.

The very next day, when the students had returned to their dormitories for the night, lights all over the building began to burst, accompanied by a strange humming sound. He found himself pulled to the open window in the tower, where he looked down at an awesome sight.

A man was standing the courtyard in front of the Academy- a very tall, dark-haired man wearing a long, dark coat and white gloves. Familiar… he looked familiar somehow. He could feel it deep within him. But he didn't dwell on it for long, for the man had begun to speak.

"Bloor!" the man shouted. "You know what I'm here for. Let me in."

There was no response from the west wing where the Bloors resided.

"Very well," the man roared. A second later, there was a loud bang, and the sound of shattering glass. This was followed by another bang, and another, and more glass shattering.

"Yewbeam!" a voice bellowed. "Stop it, or I'll call the police."

"Oh, I don't think so," the man retorted. "There are things going on here that you wouldn't want them to know. Now give me Emma Tolly's papers before I break every light in the building."

Emma Tolly… that name meant something to him. But what?

As he pondered that, there were more bangs, this time coming from the direction of the west wing. The scent of smoke and burning chemicals drifted up to him-the lights in the science lab must have burst.

"Stop it!" cried Dr. Bloor. "Paton, I implore you!"

"Give me the papers," the man demanded.

More lights burst and windows shattered, this time coming from the chapel. The remains of the beautiful stained-glass windows now littered the ground along with the clear glass of the other windows.

This, it seemed, was enough to make the Bloors comply. "All right!" screamed a voice.

Papers floated down into the courtyard from a far-up window. The man ran to catch them, and as he did he began to laugh, a deep throaty laugh that echoed through the courtyard. The children in the dormitories joined in but the teacher in the tower couldn't bring himself to.


	4. The Play

On the last day of term, Bloor's Academy put on their annual winter play, a production of Snow White. The hypnotist visited him on the day of the performance, to make sure he stayed quiet. The play was of the utmost importance, the Head Boy said, and he wouldn't have him ruining it with his piano music. He could only nod and look suitably cowed, and pray that the young man didn't try to hypnotise him.

His prayer was answered. The hypnotist—Manfred—merely glared at him with those coal-black eyes and strode away, likely too preoccupied with the coming production to think of it now. But he knew that he would return eventually to do it. The only question was when.

In the evening the guests began arriving, including the boy and his mother and a plump, cheerful-looking older lady. The mother was smiling, but there was a shadow in her eyes that he couldn't help but notice. The boy clung to her hand, grinning with excitement, while the older woman looked fondly at them both. He turned away, trying to ignore the strange feelings that were welling up inside of him.

For the majority of that evening he sat on the piano stool and gazed out at the city, his fingers resting on the black and white keys but not letting them sound. From this vantage point, one could see most of the city, including the great cathedral from which the bells tolled every hour. Street-lamps lit up the pathways like stars come to earth, casting shadows across the miniscule-looking buildings. It almost looked like a patchwork blanket, or a toy-sized city he could never be a part of.

The guests left when the bells tolled ten. He saw the boy and his mother again, but didn't have the heart to try and recognise them. It would only end in failure anyway.

When the bells tolled eleven, he realised he was hungry and ate an oatcake from the tin of oatcakes he kept on the shelf that stood against the wall. It was hard as a rock by now, and rather tasteless, but he didn't notice any of that, still lost deep in his thoughts.

When the bells tolled twelve, he felt that feeling again, of something trying to rise to the surface and break free. This time he didn't try to remember. He just listened.


	5. The Moving Tree

The winter break passed more quickly than he'd expected. There was no visit from the hypnotist, for which he had to be thankful. He spent most of his time in the music tower, playing and gazing out at the city. At other times he was wandering the halls of the Academy, wondering why each passage suddenly felt so familiar to him. Sometimes the hypnotist would appear and order him back to the tower, but at other times he would walk until he reached something that caught his eye. And he would look at it and feel something stirring deep inside of him, just as it had when he'd met the boy in the tower. He would touch the object, but nothing was revealed that he didn't already know.

He would return to the tower with nothing gained, not even a smidgen of recollection. Back to the endless playing and gazing out of the window into a world he wasn't a part of.

It was funny. The thought that he was not part of the outside world had never crossed his mind until the boy had entered his life.

Before he knew it, the first day of the new term had arrived. He sat in assembly with the other teachers, listening to the children and adults trying to sing in the cold weather.

'Do you call that singing?' roared Dr. Saltweather. 'It's a horrible moan. It's a disgraceful whine. You're musicians, for goodness sake. Sing in tune, give it some life! Now — back to the beginning, please!'

The boy was there, standing in the front row with the orphan. The smallest boys always sat in the front row. It gave him a chance to really observe him, and try to pin-point what exactly was so familiar about the boy.

There was a loud, violent cracking noise that shocked the entire room into silence.

'Good grief!' Dr. Saltweather exclaimed. 'Look at the old cedar!'

Then…

A flash of orange and red caught his eye. A movement. He stared out of the window into the area beyond the fallen tree, and his heart pounded. For there stood a tree—a tree with golden leaves and a reddish truck. A tree that emanated love, compassion and strength.

For a moment, he could clearly see what had been eluding him for so long. The woman's face, her kind blue eyes and golden-brown hair that she usually wore in a ponytail tied back with a red ribbon. Her face alight with joy as they kissed, his face mirroring her own, so happy that the moment had finally come. That she'd said yes. Then laughter, light and merry, as they sat together on a patchwork quilt in a familiar-looking room, playing with a baby that must be their son.

Dimly he heard a crash, and realised that he'd stood up, toppling his chair in the process. Beyond, the tree still stood, filling him with feelings that he couldn't describe. You are not alone, it seemed to say. Take heart, and fight.

The tree disappeared, as if it had never been there, but the feelings it had evoked in him remained. It was strange, how, as they touched him, they were like familiar strangers. They stayed with him after assembly had ended and he'd returned to the tower for the piano boy's music lesson. He didn't speak, couldn't speak, but the pupil didn't seem to mind, waiting patiently for any constructive feedback but not expecting any. The boy's playing was good (more than good, in fact), and the teacher was pleased, though he never showed it openly. After the lesson was over the boy left, and he was alone again.

The hours flew by as he lost himself in the music. Close to midnight, he stopped playing and walked into the main tower room, prepared to go to bed. There was a boy at the high window, gazing out at the city. A boy who looked similar to the boy, except his clothes were surprisingly old-fashioned, as if they had come from a different era.

'Motor cars,' the boy murmured. 'So many.'

'So many,' the teacher agreed.

The boy looked away from the window, and saw him. 'Are you Mr. Pilgrim?' he asked.

The teacher didn't know how to answer him. Everyone, even his fellow teachers, called him by that name, but he knew that it wasn't the name he had been born with. It wasn't his real name. No matter what the Bloors said, he knew that.

'I'm Henry Yewbeam,' said the boy.

Yewbeam… Why did that name feel familiar?

'I'm very old,' the boy continued. 'Or at least I should be.'

The cathedral clock began to strike midnight. At the twelfth stroke, the teacher found himself saying, 'Are you cold?'

'Yes,' said Henry.

Feeling something he hadn't felt in a long time, if ever, the piano teacher took off his blue cape and wrapped it around the boy's shoulders. It wasn't much, but it would have to do. It was too cold in the music tower at night to be without a cape.

'Thank you,' the boy said, with surprise in his eyes.

He felt himself smile—something else he hadn't fully experienced in years. Wanting to do something else for the boy, he reached for the tin of oatcakes that he kept on the high shelf and offered it to Henry.

'Oatcakes,' he said. 'You see I live up here, practically. And one gets hungry.'

'One does,' Henry agreed, taking only one oatcake.

He put the tin on the stool and said, 'Help yourself.'

The chimes had stopped; he felt the fog roll over him once more. He tried to remember, but it was no use.

Frowning, he murmured, 'Good night.'

And then he left, walking down to the stairs to the ground floor with barely a sound. Part of him felt guilt at leaving the boy in the tower on his own, but it couldn't be helped.

As he was making his way to his allocated bedroom, he happened upon Mrs Bloor. The Dark Lady to the students of Bloor's Academy. She had become a ghost of herself after her fingers had been crushed in between a door, and was often seen haunting the music tower. He'd seen her in the past, as he was leaving the tower to go to bed, and so this encounter was not a surprise to him. She stared at him with dull, hopeless eyes; he gazed back and stopped himself from asking her if they'd ever met. They said nothing to one another; their eyes spoke for them. Then they went their separate ways—she to the west wing, and he to his cold bedroom.


	6. The Boy From Nowhere

Hours later, he returned to the tower and found the strange boy gone. The cape he had given him was thrown across the piano stool. The piano teacher felt a faint concern spring into his heart. The boy shouldn't be wandering through the building by himself. And yet, it wasn't much better staying in the tower, either, where it was freezing cold and extremely windy. Perhaps he went to find something to eat.

The boy came into the tower at noon, while he was at the piano trying to remember the chords to a complicated Bach composition.

The teacher looked over the piano and frowned.

'Excuse me, sir,' the boy said. 'Have you seen a boy? A boy a bit like me?'

'Yes. There was a boy.'

"And do you know where he is now sir?'

'He shouldn't have been up here alone.' Somehow it seemed important to point that out. 'Not at night. It's too cold.'

'Yes but — where did he go?' The boy seemed impatient to know this.

'He was hungry,' the teacher said absently. Finally, he remembered the notes he'd forgotten, and launched himself into a complicated piece of music. He didn't notice the boy exiting the tower.

Privately, he admitted to himself that he'd rather liked the boy. Henry, was it? He hoped that he would be safe, wherever he was now. There were dangerous people around in the Academy who could mean him harm. With luck he would be found soon.

ooooo

That night, after all of the other students had gone to bed, the hypnotist came to see him. His fingers stilled on the piano keys as he heard him approach.

'You forgot your cape today,' the young man said as he stepped into the room.

'I did?' It wasn't hard to lie-not when most of his life was a confused haze.

The hypnotist snorted but seemed to accept his words.

'You made a scene yesterday,' he went on coldly. 'I warned you not to cause trouble.'

'I'm sorry,' he murmured. He kept his head bowed; he didn't want to risk looking into those black eyes.

'Don't do it again. Or there will be consequences.'

There was a pause, as if the hypnotist was waiting for him to say something. When it was clear that he wasn't going to say anything, the young man gave a long-suffering sigh. 'I'm watching you, Pilgrim. Try anything else and you'll regret it.'

It was pointless trying to tell him that he hadn't meant to stand up during the assembly—that he hadn't even realised what he was doing until he was actually standing up. He couldn't speak; he couldn't tell the hypnotist about the red-and-gold tree that had helped him, or the boy from nowhere. Nor did he want to.

The hypnotist walked away. He was left again with relief that the hypnotist hadn't decided to hypnotise him, and fear of what could happen next time.

The words stayed with him as he made his way to his bedroom. There will be consequences. What consequences? More hypnotism? Or something much worse? The Bloor Family was capable of a lot of terrible things—things he didn't want to experience. Perhaps he had better listen to the hypnotist and keep out of trouble. Somehow, though, part of him hated the thought of that. Didn't matter, of course. If he wanted to avoid punishment he would have to do as the hypnotist wanted, even if part of him rebelled against it.


End file.
